My Paper Chase
Read any good newspapers lately? Read any newspapers lately? If not, here鈥檚 the scoop: blogs, not banner headlines, swarm the digital frontier鈥檚 horizon, and the fourth estate has its pixels in a bunch聽 over the future of print media.
Columnists spill ink weekly (well, not at the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, which has moved online, or the Denver鈥檚 Rocky Mountain News, which has gone dark) bemoaning the bad economy, Craigslist, the microscopic attention span of Millennials 鈥� anything that will explain their industry鈥檚 woes without reference to its fear of innovation. News itself is depressing enough. Must we now suffer down-in-the-mouth news about the news?
If anyone could be expected to join this existential journalists鈥� chorus, its Harold Evans. Mercifully, My Paper Chase, a refreshing memoir by the venerated editor of London鈥檚 Sunday Times and champion of pre-Thatcher British investigative journalism, jettisons hand-wringing over the 鈥渧anished times鈥� of its melancholy subtitle for one man鈥檚 unquenchable enthusiasm for his life鈥檚 work. 鈥淚 never conceived this memoir as a valedictory to a vanishing world,鈥� Evans, now 81, writes 鈥� for this son of a middle-class railroad man, the importance of unbiased, responsible, free-flowing reportage is self-evident. If it鈥檚 not self-sustainble, that鈥檚 a problem for the accountants.
Not that Evans doesn鈥檛 wax poetic about 鈥渉ot metal鈥� typesetting, the old-fashioned, PC-free process by which metal slugs, filled with ink and pressed on paper, became the daily newspaper. Consider the author鈥檚 first encounter with Linotype machines: 鈥淸T]he floor was filled with long lines of iron monsters, each seven feet high, five feet wide, decked out with an incomprehensible array of moving parts 鈥� gears, pulleys, camshafts, levers, and bars. A man crouched in communion at the foot of each contraption.鈥� If 鈥渃ommunion鈥� sounds religious, it is 鈥� Evans, a self-starter who battled British education鈥檚 stodgy promotion system, Oxbridge classism, and Northern England鈥檚 dodgy bus schedule to land his first newspaper job, is an acolyte of 鈥渢he aromatic urgency of hot metal marinated with printer鈥檚 ink.鈥� Why would a man who macheted his way to the top of Fleet Street 鈥� home to London鈥檚 鈥渜uality papers鈥� for much of the 20th century 鈥� write about his calling with less-than-ecclesiastical fervor?
鈥淢y Paper Chase鈥� is the Gospel of Evans, and the gospel makes juicy copy. After a start covering weddings and funerals for the tiny Ashton-under-Lyne Reporter, Evans served time at regional papers and as a reporter in America and India before landing the top spot at the Sunday Times in 1967. His 15-year tenure brought a lot of news fit to print: Evans鈥檚 鈥淚nsight鈥� investigative team broke the Kim Philby spy scandal, pursued settlements for limbless thalidomide victims (and shone a light on Britain鈥檚 glacial civil courts), and, in the face of a libel suit, pushed Northern Ireland鈥檚 IRA 鈥渢roubles鈥� under the noses of an indifferent public. 鈥淎 newspaper is an argument on the way to a deadline,鈥� Evans writes of his muckracking, side-taking, 鈥渟traightforward鈥� editorial style. 鈥淚f there isn鈥檛 any argument, there鈥檚 not much of a newspaper.鈥�
But if the power of the press should start arguments, it doesn鈥檛 guarantee winning. Evans was pushed out of the Times in 1982 after spats over editorial independence with uberpublisher Rupert Murdoch, journalism鈥檚 once-and-future bogeyman. If the dismissed editor, who nearsightedly sided with Murdoch鈥檚 guerrilla campaign against press unions, really thinks 鈥渆very British newspaperman is in [Murdoch鈥檚] debt,鈥� it鈥檚 a disappointing case of a dog not biting the hand that beats it.
Exiled to Manhattan, Evans served as founding editor of Conde Nast Traveler, then ran Random House, where he published William Styron鈥檚 鈥淒arkness Visible,鈥� Colin Powell鈥檚 鈥淢y American Journey,鈥� and a memoir by 鈥渁 community organizer named Barack Obama.鈥� But this dazzling 鈥渟econd act鈥� can鈥檛 hide Evans鈥檚 newspaper jones. 鈥淸A]n opportunity to return to journalism on the scale of the Sunday Times,鈥� Evans writes of his Random House entr茅e 鈥� a curious comment about one of the world鈥檚 largest book publishers from the writer of seven books himself. This man just can鈥檛 see the forest or the trees, but the newspapers they could become 鈥� Evans devotes 500 pages to his life before and during his Times editorship, but less than 50 to his life after it.
Still, even if he鈥檇 rather be sweating it out with a copy editor five minutes to deadline than reminiscing with the president about the meager advance for 鈥淒reams from My Father,鈥� Evans remains upbeat. 鈥淲hat we have to find is a way to sustain truth seeking,鈥� he writes. 鈥淚f we evolve the right financial model, we will enter a golden age of journalism.鈥� 鈥淲ill enter鈥� 鈥� not 鈥渆ntered,鈥� or 鈥渃ould have entered,鈥� or 鈥渟hould have entered.鈥� What daily鈥檚 editorial page dares write with such optimism? While not short on war stories, 鈥淢y Paper Chase鈥� refuses nostalgia. Tomorrow is, after all, another day, and brings a new edition.
Justin Moyer is a freelance book reviewer in Washington, D.C.
